Your mother, we will say, was twenty-seven when you were born,
and was born therefore in 1745.

Your grandmother was thirty-five when her daughter was born, and
was born therefore in 1710.

We will begin with the present granny first. My good old
creature, you can't of course remember, but that little gentleman
for whom you mother was laundress in the Temple was the ingenious
Mr Goldsmith, author of a "History of England," the "Vicar of
Wakefield," and many diverting pieces. You were brought almost
an infant to his chambers in Brick Court, and he gave you some
sugar-candy, for the doctor was always good to children. That
gentleman who well-nigh smothered you by sitting down on you as
you lay in a chair asleep was the learned Mr S. Johnson, whose
history of "Rasselas" you have never read, my pour soul; and
whose tragedy of "Irene" I don't believe any man in these
kingdoms ever perused. That tipsy Scotch gentleman who used to
come to the chambers sometimes, and at whom everybody laughed,
wrote a more amusing book than any of the scholars, your Mr Burke
and your Mr Johnson, and your Dr Goldsmith. Your father often
took him home in a chair to his lodgings; and has done as much
for Parson Sterne in Bond Street, the famous wit. Of course, my
good creature, you remember the Gordon Riots, and crying No
Popery before Mr Langdale's house, the Popish distiller's, and
that bonny fire of my Lord Mansfield's books in Bloomsbury
Square? Bless us, what a heap of illuminations you have seen!
For the glorious victory over the Americans at Breed's Hill; for
the peace in 1814, and the beautiful Chinese bridge in St James's